"The Quiet American" Has Never Been More Relevant

America this Week returns with a discussion of Graham Greene's uncanny prediction about Vietnam, Harvard, and the danger of the managerial "expert"

In Chapter Two of The Quiet American narrator Thomas Fowler, like author Graham Greene a war-weary British journalist, watches in horror as young CIA agent Thomas Pyle orchestrates a disaster. Pyle has just arrived in Vietnam from Harvard and follows an anticommunist playbook in backing the dubious General Thé, who blows up a street full of women and children instead of soldiers:

“He said, ‘Thé wouldn’t have done this. I’m sure he wouldn’t. Somebody deceived him. The Communists…’

He was impregnably armoured by his good intentions and his ignorance. I left him standing in the square and went on up the rue Catinat to where the hideous pink Cathedral blocked the way.

The Quiet American, Graham Greene’s fifteenth novel, was published in 1955. The novel is equal parts epitaph for Britain’s empire, love story, battlefield diary, and spy thriller (a real-life MI6 agent, Greene wrote four or five of the best spy novels ever). What makes it so uncannily relevant to the present is his merciless dissection of Pyle and his “good intentions.” Perhaps without even intending it, Greene with his seething description of the meddling American “Economic Aid Mission” adviser published one of the first portraits of a figure destined to rule the world, the managerial expert.

A brilliant prose stylist whose extensive travels gave us exotic locales for novels set everywhere from the Caribbean to Africa to Asia to Central and South America, Greene in the first part of The Quiet American spends more time on sour grapes than politics. Fowler, Greene’s aging, opium-smoking English narrator, is in love with a 20-year-old Vietnamese beauty named Phuong (which, he says, “means Phoenix, but nothing nowadays… rises from its ashes”). With the prescience of all inadequate lovers, Fowler knew the virile-if-moronic, sober, hygiene-obsessed Pyle would spot Phuong and take Fowler’s place with her the way America was then taking Britain’s place everywhere. True, Pyle had no game at all, romancing Phuong with lectures on America and the promise of Democracy while his ideas about sex seemed to come from a book called The Physiology of Marriage. Still, Pyle had the one thing Fowler never would again: power, of both the political and sexual kind.

Fowler urges Phuong to get Pyle on the opium pipe to help even the odds, but probably knowing that will fail, tries to console himself with a truism. “A man’s sexual capacity might be injured by smoking,” Fowler writes, “but [the Vietnamese] would always prefer a faithful to a potent lover.” Of course it doesn’t turn out that way, especially once Pyle promises to marry Phuong, elevating Fowler’s resentment and desperation to new levels. Will he have to kill for love in the end?

Fowler’s portrait of Pyle starts out as a humdrum compound of jealousy and Oxonian snobbery — he hates Pyle because he’s a winner and his idea of a good book is The Advance of Red China — but in his callow Euro resentment discovers the real danger of America. Pyle is an overgrown schoolboy whose belief in American know-how and can-do spirit runs deeper and is more full of absurd religious certitude than the British royalists who circled the world murdering for King and country. Greene knew the executors of European colonialism were raised from university age to be rakes and buggerers who knew more poetry than policy, which created its own set of problems but at least immunized them from the most dangerous disease of all: moral confidence. “God save us always,” Fowler says, “from the innocent and good.”

Greene reportedly spent two years in Vietnam beginning in 1951 and parts of several others before publishing in the mid-fifties. The Quiet American predicted twenty years of mayhem, death, and cultural upheaval and in 1975, when it was “all over but the writing,” American Herbert Mitgang went looking for Greene’s inspiration in what was still Saigon. He spoke to retired General Edward Lansdale, a longtime intelligence presence and “adviser on matters of pacification” who was rumored to be Greene’s model for Pyle. “I used to see Greene sitting around the Rue Catinat,” Lansdale said. “I had the feeling that Greene was anti‐American.”

He was right about that. Americans in Greene’s novels are universally savaged as blundering nitwits, from The Presidential Candidate in The Comedians who thinks he can end Haitian violence through vegetarianism to the CIA man in Travels With My Aunt who records how much time he spends urinating per day in a journal. Greene served in MI6 as a deputy under infamous double-agent Kim Philby, and like Philby, flirted with Communism in youth, and repeatedly rationalized Philby’s treason late in life. “Who among us has not committed treason to something or someone more important than a country?” he wrote, in an introduction to Philby’s memoir. Greene even wrote an unnervingly convincing novel (The Human Factor) about a British official so repulsed by America’s alliance with South African apartheid that he spied for the Russians.

In hindsight, even if Greene hated Americans for other reasons, he may have been giving the USAID-style managerial expert too much credit for “good intentions.” Nonetheless, The Quiet American nailed a new kind of world conqueror, one bursting with what Iggy Pop called “plans for everyone,” while simultaneously being too ignorant of everything outside of his American head — language, customs, local personalities — to competently run anything. Because this new character also lacked any capacity for self-doubt, he never knew when to withdraw and doubled down until he found himself blowing up women and children for the “greater good.” Maybe it’s coincidence, but we’ve never had more to fear from the Pyles of the world.

Walter and I will delve more into part one of The Quiet American at 4 pm ET today.